


The Summer King

by thelightofmorning



Series: Tales of the Aurelii [10]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, Character Death, Corpse Desecration, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Genocide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Prequel, Religious Conflict, Violence, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-09 17:54:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20998928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: Since the death of his father Istlod, High King Torygg has done his best to stave off civil war in Skyrim with diplomacy, cunning and the loyalty of several agents. He has made deals with the Forsworn, befriended Ulfric Stormcloak's son Egil and summoned the daughter of traitors Laina South-Wind to court. But it is like trying to swim through sand.Ulfric will not be denied his war. And on the thread of Torygg's life waits the world's doom.Final prequel to the main storyline in the Aurelii 'canon.





	1. An Intelligent High King

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, religious conflict, war crimes, corpse desecration and mentions of imprisonment, torture and genocide. Here it is, folks, the last prequel before ‘The Winds of War’, which will begin the main storyline. Enjoy Torygg’s story!

It was the two hundredth year of the Fourth Era and Tamriel still reeled from the assassination of Emperor Titus Mede II and the subsequent disappearance of his closest kinsman Armand Motierre. Absent was the Imperial Heir Akaviria Nona Mara Medea, supposedly undergoing an intense training programme to prepare her for the duties of the Ruby Throne. Her father Commander Maro was dead while her brother Gaius had been sickened by a mass poisoning generally believed to be the last spiteful act of the notorious traitor and assassin Rustem Aurelius. The priest-assassin Irkand Aurelius was considered to be dead in an attempt to protect the Emperor. The woman considered to be the last of the Aurelii, one Laina South-Wind, was too busy hunting Dragon Cult ruins and the strange things therein to pay attention to something as banal as politics. On a happier note, someone had executed the infamous Sigdrifa Stormsword at the ruins of Yngvild, depriving the rebellious Jarl Ulfric of Windhelm of his finest general. Better yet, the Reachfolk were being integrated into the greater Empire after an awkward adjustment period where both sides had to reconsider their stance on certain religious practices.

Or as Marcus Tullius, the General referred to as the Emperor’s Hammer or the Imperial Nutcracker, remarked, “Sure, they’re cannibalistic Daedra-worshipping heathens, but they’re _our_ cannibalistic Daedra-worshipping heathens.”

Diplomacy wasn’t his strong point but Tullius damn well knew that Skyrim was at boiling point. Ulfric was itching for a fight in the Old Holds and a lot of people in the Imperial ones were supportive because the Empire not only denied Talos’ divinity, they pissed on his first victories by letting the Reachfolk more or less run their own Hold. The finer point of Argis being a Nord who won the Mournful Throne in the age-old Skyrim tradition of killing his predecessor was ignored or lost upon a people hellbent on sliding back into barbarism of the worst kind. Stendarr protect him and his men from the parochial attitudes of a race who probably discovered fire by accident when the Aldmeri Dominion was watching, waiting and salivating at the chance to destroy humanity.

So when Tullius was sent to Skyrim in preparation for the upcoming civil war, he expected the worst. Finding an intelligent High King with a wife whose shrewd political instincts were honed by Breton court politics, Nord subordinates with more common sense than most of their kind, and two thousand witch-bred heathens wanting to kill, eat and soul trap Ulfric (not necessarily in that order) was a pleasant surprise. A righteous man would frown upon the blatant use of necromancy but for Ulfric Stormcloak, Tullius might just make an exception. He’d read the reports on the Markarth Incident. If a man deserved an eternity in the Soul Cairn, it was Ulfric. Sadly, his wife probably wouldn’t join him.

Torygg’s council awaited him in the Blue Palace’s audience chamber. The High King, his wife Elisif, Steward Falk Firebeard, court wizard Sybille Stentor, loyalist Jarls Balgruuf the Greater and Argis the Bulwark (Nords and their bloody honour-names), and Laina South-Wind rose to their feet as he entered. Tullius bowed stiffly, wondering how the hell Argis didn’t get cold in his heathen armour of leather, bone and feathers. Nords were resistant to the cold but this was ridiculous!

“Welcome, General Tullius,” Torygg greeted in his soft, court-accented tenor. “How are you finding Skyrim?”

_Say something tactful, Marcus._ “How aren’t any of you freezing to death?”

“We’re Nords,” Torygg said with a twitch of the lips. “It’s spring up here.”

_Spring, my ass._ “I forgot.”

“You’ve met Elisif and Falk. May I introduce you to Jarls Argis and Balgruuf, my court wizard Sybille and the court researcher Laina South-Wind?” Torygg performed the introductions with a sweep of his hand. From the looks of his forearm, the boy had put on some muscle.

“I’ve met Laina. I was commanding the Anvil Third and Bruma Fourth when the Red-Hand pirates attacked the Gold Coast.” Tullius nodded to the others. “Good to meet you.”

“Still as taciturn as ever,” Elisif said, dimpling at him.

“I’m a soldier, not a courtier.” Tullius sat in the chair indicated by Torygg’s gesture. “Tell me again why Ulfric’s head isn’t on a pike already?”

“Because he’s standing on the right side of Nord law pissing at us,” Jarl Argis said with commendable bluntness. Hadn’t he been a soldier before becoming ruler of the Reach? “Until he crosses the border with an army, we can’t execute him, or we’d have half of Skyrim at our throats.”

“Since my mother’s death, he’s lost his greatest general and long-term strategist,” Laina said dispassionately. “Bjarni is a competent frontline commander but misses the greater picture; Egil has the potential but lacks experience. Galmar’s a brilliant leader of men but his idea of tactics is mostly brute force.”

“How can we sure we can trust you?” Tullius asked the woman candidly. “You come from a line of traitors.”

“I also come from a line of heroes,” was Laina’s rejoinder. “I’m wife to an Empire-loyal Jarl and subordinate to the High King who gave me a chance. When Akaviria reveals herself, I’ll be the first to swear allegiance. Until then, trust in the judgment of Torygg, hmm?”

“Laina’s had a dozen chances to go over to the Stormcloaks. I’m given to understand one of her brothers begged her to,” Rikke confirmed. “Laina is not Rustem or Sigdrifa or Arius.”

Tullius grunted. “Fine. But I’m watching you.”

“Try not to miss the enemy when you’re doing so,” Laina observed acidly.

Torygg sniffed in amusement. “So we think Ulfric will make his move on or around the autumn Moot. It’s the first anniversary of his wife’s humiliation. He’s smarting at the loss of her.”

“I suspect it was one of Rustem’s last ‘fuck yous’ to Skyrim,” Argis drawled. “From everything I’ve heard, that man despised both Empire and Stormcloak.”

“What was Hammerfell’s response to the situation? They sponsored him for a long time,” Tullius pointed out.

“Ambassador Beroc was shocked, absolutely shocked, at the horrendous actions of his daughter’s former consort,” Falk said blandly. “Hammerfell might not have been behind the Emperor’s death, but they damn well rejoiced when Mede died.”

“With some justification,” Sybille observed. “They were betrayed. Mede won the war and lost the peace, leaving us to clean up his mess.”

Tullius grunted in agreement. “That’s as it is. I want to present a unified Skyrim to Akaviria when she returns from her education abroad. The Elder Council can’t run things forever. How do we get Ulfric to cross the line?”

Torygg smiled grimly. “We make Siddgeir Jarl of Falkreath. That might just be the last bit of outrage to get him going.”

The High King had a brain. The Elder Council was going to collectively shit itself. Tullius couldn’t wait.


	2. The Way of the Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, imprisonment, war crimes, sexual intercourse and genocide.

“You know, if Thonar wasn’t already dead, I’d kill him for depriving me of my Thane best with numbers,” Torygg sighed as he examined the ledgers. He needed a new accountant and fast, but it wasn’t a trade appreciated by Nords and if he appointed a Cyrod, it would give the Old Holds more ammunition to call him Imperial puppet.

Elisif rolled over in bed to face him. “They’ll be there tomorrow. Maybe I could ask one of my father’s people to come from Evermore. Several of them are trained as accountants.”

Torygg gave up wrestling with mathematics – not hard when he didn’t like it and his wife’s beautiful naked body was on display – and joined her in bed. Afterwards, when Elisif was deeply asleep, he left their bed, donned a light robe and went out to search for a drink.

Unsurprisingly, Laina was awake and making notations in her book. The four Dragon Priest masks she’d collected – Hevnoraak, Otar, Vokun and Volsung – stared out from their shelf in the larger chamber he’d assigned her and Argis. The newlyweds were parted more than he wished, but Laina had thrown herself back into her work, tersely explaining to Elisif that the Sybil of Dibella herself told her she was on the right track.

“Do you ever sleep?” Torygg asked ruefully after snagging a bottle of Alto wine from her shelf.

“I do,” Laina confirmed. “But my understanding of Restoration has progressed to the point where healing spells also restores my stamina, so I get tired a lot less these days.”

That was a reasonable enough explanation. Torygg had studied the basics of Restoration and Destruction in the Imperial court, but magic was as interesting to him as mathematics. “Do you miss Argis?”

“I do.” Laina sighed, scratched one last sigil into the book – it was her Dragonish-Tamrielic primer – and laid a hand on it to dry the ink. “These past couple years, I’ve barely caught my breath and another disaster befalls us. If Ulfric succeeds-“

She tightened her mouth. “Researching dragons has made me as paranoid as old Esbern was back at Cloud Ruler Temple. I wake up expecting to hear news of Alduin World-Eater Himself.”

“Alduin’s a myth,” Torygg told her.

“No, He was – and is – real.” Laina’s expression was sombre. “Torygg, I’d appreciate it if you don’t die. Worse than civil war may occur if you do.”

“I’ll try not to,” Torygg promised. “If I did, Elisif would drag me back kicking and screaming from Sovngarde.”

Laina pursed her lips. “I want to start joining your weapons training classes. I don’t want this bruited about, but I’ve managed to unlock a Word of the Thu’um. Watch.”

She turned to a decorative wooden vase and Shouted “FUS!” The wood clattered to the ground from the force of the word – no, Word – and the Shout echoed throughout the Blue Palace’s corridors like thunder.

“Unrelenting Force, Ulfric’s favourite battle-Shout,” she explained hoarsely. “I learned the Word in a place called Bleak Falls Barrow, where I found that dragon burial map.”

“You can match him Shout for Shout!” Torygg exclaimed excitedly.

But Laina shook her head. “Ulfric knows all three Words of two Shouts. Unrelenting Force and one that disarms an enemy. I think a Ward or shield can disrupt the one and I can replicate the other with Telekinesis so you can prepare for it.”

“You think Ulfric will come for me personally?” Torygg asked, aghast.

Laina’s look was pitying. “You’re the epitome of everything he despises. He will come for you. And you need to be ready to face him.”

…

After several bouts of training, Torygg decided on the shield to block Unrelenting Force, and he began to carry a hand-axe in addition to his sword so that he had a backup weapon. Captain Aldis, proficient in several kinds of weapons, taught him the basics of dagger, axe, sword and mace, how to throw knives and smaller axes, and the many uses of a wooden shield. Much to Torygg’s surprise, he was becoming proficient far sooner than he thought. He wouldn’t be a Companion but he dared to hope he might hold his own.

The spring Moot came and from Eastmarch only came Bjarni, whose expression was troubled. Egil was Torygg’s friend but Bjarni would have been great for a night on the town, if he wasn’t the son of a traitor. Why couldn’t Egil and Bjarni see their parents for what they were and reject it? Laina had.

Torygg was returning from training when he happened by Laina’s room and overheard Bjarni talking to his sister. “How can you be so… so…?”

“Calm? Bjarni, I was left to fend for myself. For the first couple years, it might have been understandable, but the Stormsword pretended I never existed and never looked back,” was Laina’s response. “I mourned for our mother a long time ago, more for the mother she’d never been than the person she was. If that seems cold to you, so be it.”

“But to join the _Forsworn_?” Bjarni’s voice cracked on the last word.

“You have a grandmother who mourns greatly that she has two grandchildren she’s never met and who probably consider her a Daedric abomination.” Laina’s voice was soft and sympathetic. “Of all my kin, it was Catriona who gave me the most love and affection, and taught me much of magic, alchemy and survival. That she happens to be a Hagraven in service to Hircine is immaterial.”

“You should meet her. She’ll likely come to the spring Moot with Argis,” Torygg suggested from the door.

Bjarni’s smile was crooked. “I’m already on thin ice with Father because I champion the Argonians and Dunmer. Meeting a Hagraven might just get me disowned.”

“It can be done discreetly. But I think you owe it to your mother’s side to know the whole story,” Torygg said quietly. “Your parents are _war criminals_, Bjarni. What they wrought in the Reach was abomination.”

“My husband was one of those children taken to the lowlands and raised as a ‘true Nord’,” Laina noted with a sigh. “You should read the Imperial reports if you’ve got a strong stomach.”

“Yes, because my parents are so much worse than the Thalmor,” Bjarni said bitterly.

“Ulfric learnt his cruelty from his captors,” Laina said bluntly. “They and the more rabid Stormcloaks are two of a kind.”

Her comment struck home; Torygg could see it in Bjarni’s eyes. “Yet you bow to the Empire who gave them leave.”

“I choose survival,” Laina said candidly. “That was ever the choice given to me since my childhood. My allegiance is to Torygg, Bjarni. Be a man and make your own decisions, whatever they should be.”

He stiffened and walked out, pushing past Torygg.

“He’s more unsure than he’s letting on. I suppose that news of Sigdrifa’s more questionable actions has been filtering out in the Old Holds,” Laina said as she returned to polishing her Dragon Priest masks. “If he remains with the Stormcloaks, it will be because of his hatred for tyranny, not because he believes in the glory of mighty Talos.”

“I’m doing my best to reveal everything we found in the ruins of the old Falkreath Sanctuary,” Torygg told her. “I learned from you that the truth can be a powerful weapon.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Torygg. If you hadn’t given me a chance…”

“How could I not? You’ve reclaimed more of Skyrim’s ancient history than even the bards.” He smiled, gave her a nod, and left her to her work.

It would be Nords like Laina who would save Skyrim, he reflected as he went to change for dinner. Ulfric and his ilk were of the past; she was of the future. And if he lived long enough to see it happen, he would consider himself worthy to join his ancestors in Sovngarde.


	3. Methods and Measures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, imprisonment, war crimes and genocide.

“Ondolemar, remind me _again_ why you’ve allowed the Nord situation to stabilise?”

“It’s not stabilised, it’s simmering,” the chief Justicar of Skyrim said testily as he adjusted his robes for the autumn Moot of 4E200. “Ulfric suffered quite the setback when Sigdrifa was murdered. He needs to regain his footing and nerve before he acts. You _did_ want this to go on for several years, correct?”

Elenwen bowed her head to concede the point. He did know the Nords better than most Justicars, who were used to the respect they got in Alinor and the fear they got in Cyrodiil, therefore getting a rude shock when they arrived in Skyrim. A rude shock that was often fatal. Some of them even died accidentally.

“I wish I knew where Rustem was buried. I’d pour him a libation of gratitude,” she admitted as she poured herself some imported wine from High Rock. Ondolemar’s board was sparser than she expected, given the mer’s gourmand tendencies.

“Pour a bottle of beer into Solitude Harbour,” the Justicar suggested dryly. “He was always partial to the stuff.”

Elenwen laughed. “Good point. Speaking of the undrinkable, I’ve noticed your wine cellar is lacking. Has the rations stipend been reduced?”

“You _do_ know that Pale Pass was blocked off, right?” Ondolemar reminded her, tugging on his robes. The youth she’d remembered from her childhood had been reed-thin, but since leaving Alinor, he’d thrown himself into physical pursuits almost to the point of his magical skills atrophying. Perhaps he’d gone a bit native. That could happen when you were among the mortals. “It’s hard to stock a proper cellar when the costs of shipping on water tripled thanks to the Shatter-Shields of Eastmarch, the Redguards doubled their tariffs, and the Bretons are being stingy with their wine.”

Elenwen grimaced. “We had to lend a hand to clearing the Pass. Can’t let the mortals know what we think of them.”

“Oh, they know,” Ondolemar observed sardonically. “Even Nords aren’t that stupid as a whole.”

Elenwen’s eyebrows rose. “It sounds like you admire them.”

“You know I’m not a Justicar because I wish to destroy humanity for the crimes of Lorkhan,” he replied as he buttoned up the last of his robes. “I have always seen myself as more of an educator than anything else. When you teach children, you become fond of them and admire their accomplishments. They are our younger cousins, Elenwen. Not stupid, not primitive and most certainly not limited. It is our duty to lead them back to the Aedra, not beat them into rebellion.”

“Some require the stick,” she pointed out.

“True. But if you teach the children correctly, they will discipline their own errant kind.” Ondolemar’s reflection smiled at her in the mirror. “Look at Laina South-Wind. A little kindness and understanding to an abandoned child, a few lessons and some patience, and I have completely divested her of any ambition beyond the study of her own people’s history.”

Elenwen’s jaw dropped momentarily in admiration of the mer. “Auri-El have mercy, I thought you were coddling her?”

“I was,” Ondolemar admitted. “Given my proclivities, I’m unlikely to have children. In some ways, she’s like the daughter I will never have. Weak of me, I know-“

“Oh no, no,” Elenwen assured him hastily. “I understand how you feel. I felt a bit that way about Ulfric. Poor lad. I could have educated him better if Sigdrifa and Delphine hadn’t rescued him.”

Ondolemar’s smile was twisted. “I didn’t need to use anything other than my own empathy and intuition with Laina.”

“Ulfric’s a blunt weapon,” Elenwen said with a shrug. “He will serve his purpose in time.”

“His sons, particularly Egil, may prove to be somewhat more difficult,” Ondolemar mused.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” she reminded him.

“Pride cometh before a fall,” he murmured. “But Ulfric is your concern and Laina is mine. Are we in agreement?”

She smiled. “Of course. _Do_ make sure she is the last of the Aurelii. We don’t need more of Talos’ blood running around.”

He smiled thinly. “Of course.”

…

“Your Highness, there’s a Companion of Jorrvaskr who seeks audience with you.”

Elisif wiped her mouth. Mornings were a slice of Oblivion at the moment. “Only the one? I thought they travelled in pairs and packs.”

“Her colleague, the Hero-Twin Vilkas, is seeking payment for a bounty from Falk,” announced Bolgeir Bearclaw, her husband’s huscarl. “Ria says she knew you from the puppet plays in the Elven District.”

The Queen of Skyrim quickly reached for and pulled on a robe suitable for audience. Bless Endarie and Taarie for their work because it was elegant while giving her room for her swelling belly. “I know her. Bring her to my solar.”

Akaviria was looking well for someone supposedly in finishing school, flushed with exertion, her dark hair bearing bronze and sable highlights from the sun. Gone was the slightly puppyish girl who trained under Legate Rikke’s watchful eye; in her place was an experienced warrior with the muscles of a fighter. Elisif supposed she’d gone to a finishing school of a different kind; Jorrvaskr’s warriors were legendary in their skill.

“I won’t be able to stay long,” the Imperial Heir – who really ought to be Empress by now – explained as Elisif entered the solar. “Vilkas is keen to return to Jorrvaskr and as a whelp, I have to take his orders.”

“I envy you a little,” Elisif observed. “To be a hero of Skyrim-“

“I wish it was for my own glory,” Ria said with a sigh. “But I need to understand how the Nords think if we’re to keep Skyrim in the Empire. It’s closer than you know because my grandfather was so focused on Cyrodiil, he ignored the provinces, and then wondered why they told him to piss off.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Elisif said gently. “Your father, grandfather…”

Ria sighed. “You know what? I’m mourning Irkand more than my own flesh and blood. He and Rikke were more my parents than my own.”

“He’s dead then?”

“Gaius gave the Penitus Oculatus orders to execute him if he failed to kill Rustem,” Ria admitted with a grimace. “Thankfully, a near-bout with death has knocked a little sense into him. He’ll make a great Imperial Chancellor when the time comes.”

“Rustem poisoned the Penitus Oculatus,” Elisif said softly.

“I know. Skjor, who was a friend of Irkand’s, always said Rustem was an equal-opportunity arsehole,” Ria said with a grim quirk of her lips. “He did as much damage to the Stormcloaks as he did to us.”

“I’ll dump some cheap ale in the harbour as a remembrance,” Elisif noted dryly. Then she reached for a silver bowl as her stomach roiled.

“Congratulations on your pregnancy,” Ria said, her expression softening. “When is the babe due?”

“Spring.” Elisif washed out her mouth and spat into the bowl. “Torygg’s beside himself with joy and worry.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Ria said. “Ulfric won’t move until spring at least, according to my observations in Windhelm. Bjarni’s giving him one hell of a fight over the treatment of the Argonians and Dunmer while Egil’s been throwing himself into destroying necromancers. There’s some indications Sigdrifa sponsored a few so that she could supplement the Stormcloaks with undead shock troops… but we can’t prove anything.”

“I should send the Dark Brotherhood a thank-you note,” Elisif said fervently.

Then she winces as she remembered Ria had lost most of her family to them. “I’m sorry, I-“

“You’re pregnant,” Ria said with a wry smile. “Gaius tells me the tongue loosens when you’re carrying a babe, though he doesn’t know why. He married that Nord woman from Dragon Bridge. She will make a good Mistress of the Imperial Household.”

Elisif smiled in relief. “How long before you’ll be a Companion?”

“That depends on the Circle,” Ria sighed. “It should be a year at most.”

Then the Imperial Heir shook her head. “They’ll hold me back if I seem impatient. Honour, it seems, is a trickier dance than any minuet from High Rock.”

“I noticed,” Elisif said softly. “Only politics is worse. Yet dance it we must if we are to survive this civil war.”


	4. The End of the Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, misogyny and fantastic racism. Final chapter, folks, with some deviation from canon.

It was the spring Moot of the 201st year of the Fourth Era and Ulfric had come to Solitude on a mission. He had brought Egil, the stoutest of his sons, and left Bjarni behind in Windhelm to mind the city. If the worst came to worst and the Stormcloak cause lost, his eldest would be able to bow his neck to the Imperial yoke. Ulfric had no desire for defeat, but a good Jarl prepared for every contingency.

For the umpteenth time, he missed Sigdrifa. Her ability to prepare for almost any outcome had bordered on prescience, but when she needed foresight the most, she hadn’t anticipated her own death. Ulfric and Galmar could only muddle along on her contingency plans and pray Talos had left some of His tactical genius in the Stormsword’s writings.

He didn’t bother booking a room at the Winking Skeever. He would be victorious or he would be dead. There was no middle ground today.

“Is there no other way?” Egil asked as they walked to the Blue Palace.

Ulfric sighed. “I know Torygg’s a friend of yours and he isn’t the milk-drinker I thought him. But we must be free of the Empire and that means we must be rid of Torygg.”

At Egil’s troubled expression, he smiled sadly. “I will make sure he goes to Sovngarde. You can feast and drink together for eternity.”

“That’s if I don’t become Meridia’s Champion,” Egil observed, fingering the hilt of Dawnbreaker.

“Still at you, is she?”

“Always. Now she’s reminding me of how potent Auroran cavalry is in battle and her willingness to lend aid to a secular cause.”

Ulfric snorted in amusement. “At least selling your soul would produce a more useful result than the usual bargains.”

“Yet you have the gall to judge the Hagravens and Briarhearts of the Reach. I would be no different to them if I did so.”

The Jarl of Windhelm gave his son an askance glance. “Excuse me?”

“Bjarni met our grandmother Catriona at the last spring Moot. You know that Hagraven that nearly killed you? That was her. She held back because she realised Mother was leading the charge and couldn’t bring herself to kill her.” Egil’s smile was a wry bitter thing. “You’re Madanach’s cousin-in-law, if I understand the genealogy correctly.”

“It doesn’t change anything,” Ulfric pointed out.

“No, but it does put you in the position of hypocrisy.” Egil sighed and shook his head. “You’re doing what you think is right. But will the cost be worth it?”

“You doubt the rightness of our cause?” Ulfric asked pointedly.

“Compared to the Thalmor? No. But I must consider these things. Certitude is a good thing for a Jarl, but it helps if it is backed up by the right reasons. Mother thought she was right. Catriona thought she was right. I suppose in his way, Rustem too thought he was doing the right thing.” Egil sighed again. “I just fear this will bring about something worse.”

“We shall see. It’s too late to back out now. I’ve given Galmar his orders.”

The Blue Palace was thronging with courtiers in imported silks that could have fed an Eastmarch family for a year. Ulfric’s gaze sought and found Torygg, who was rocking his new son and making soothing noises. Next to him stood Elisif, wearing something fluttery and useless, suited to her personality.

Torygg was wearing armour with a shield slung across his back and a sword at his hip.

“Did you warn him?” Ulfric hissed to Egil. His son’s sense of fair play would lead him to consider such a course.

“No. But I told you Torygg wasn’t an idiot,” Egil answered tersely.

“It changes nothing.” Ulfric lifted his voice, allowing the rumble of the Thu’um to enhance it. “Torygg!”

“Ulfric,” the High King said in a clipped tone, handing the baby back to Elisif. “Found the balls to challenge me?”

Ulfric flushed at the implied slur to his courage. “Skyrim needs a High King who will free her from her yoke, not one that drinks the milk of an Empire too cowardly to defend the god that founded it!”

“Yes, because the Butcher of Markarth is _such_ an excellent choice to lead a nation of diverse cultures and peoples,” drawled Argis the Bulwark, wearing brown suede and leather with the knotwork of the Reachman barbarians at neck and wrist.

“If you feel I would make a poor High King, you’re welcome to challenge me after I’ve defeated Torygg,” Ulfric invited with a savage grin. “I’m used to fighting heathens.”

“I’d rather challenge you beforehand. Take away your Thu’um and you’re little more than a petty warlord who relied on his dead wife,” Argis said flatly.

“I am no Igmund. I know my way around an axe,” Ulfric reminded him. “I should hate to widow my stepdaughter so early in the marriage.”

“I defeated Madanach without the need of the Thu’um,” Argis said grimly. “If you should win the duel, the Reach will secede, and we know quite a bit more of lowlander tactics this time around.”

“I think you will find I am no easy meat,” Torygg said quietly. “Or that the western Holds will fall into line behind some barbarian renegade who ran his own Hold into wrack and ruin.”

“Then I will conquer them in the old way under the banner of Talos.” Ulfric smiled thinly. “I am glad you’ve learned something of war. It would be a boring fight otherwise.”

“Can he legally do this?” a stocky Colovian was demanding of Falk Firebeard and Rikke.

“Yes. If we allowed Argis to do it…” Rikke’s voice trailed off.

“Son of a bitch,” swore the Cyrod.

“I challenge you, Torygg, to a duel to the death,” Ulfric announced proudly. “Will you answer it or relinquish the High King’s crown to me as a coward? You and your wife and your spawn may retreat to High Rock or Cyrodiil as you prefer.”

“I may fall, Ulfric, but you will not walk away unscathed,” Torygg said flatly. “I don’t suppose you’ll fight with a gag?”

Ulfric laughed. “I fight with the holy power of Talos Himself!”

Torygg glanced at Laina, whose expression was tightly controlled. “Can you silence him?”

“Only a gag can stop the Thu’um; it can overcome Muffle,” was her grim answer. “Remember what I taught you.”

Ulfric raised an eyebrow. “You claim to know something of the Thu’um?”

“I know more than you. I know how to kill a Tongue,” Laina said grimly. “You and Mother claimed holy crusade, but it’s funny how the will of Talos aligns with your own ambitions. If you go through with this, Ulfric, you better start watching the skies because you might just find more than you can fight.”

“What, the dragons will return?”

“It’s a strong possibility. In that case, I hope Alduin hunts you in Sovngarde and chokes on your soul.”

Egil gasped, as did several other Nords. That was perhaps the worst curse short of a soul trap one Nord could level at another.

“Your mother was right to pretend you were never born,” Ulfric said through gritted teeth, “Because you are full of the Aurelii’s filth and the Reachfolk’s vileness.”

Laina snorted contemptuously. “I’ve been called worse things by half-souled draugr trying to kill me in tombs built for your pissant ancestors, Ulfric.”

“Enough!” snapped Kodlak Whitemane, the Harbinger. “You are certain on this, Ulfric?”

“I am. Skyrim’s new beginning starts today with Torygg’s death.”

“High King Torygg, you accept?”

“I do.”

They made a circle in the audience chamber, the Companions outlining it with their bodies. Elisif was weeping into her babe’s swaddling. Milk-drinking Breton-bred wench.

“Begin.”

Ulfric unleashed Unrelenting Force once Kodlak was out of the way. But Torygg threw himself on the ground under the force of the Shout, scrambling to his feet as Ulfric closed in.

His shield met Foe-Frightener just in time to prevent his head being cloven in two.

“You _have_ been training,” Ulfric noted as he stepped back.

“I am no easy victory,” Torygg grated.

Ulfric led the boy around the circle until he could catch his breath again. This time he used Disarm, tearing the boy’s ebony sword from his hand and following up with an axe-blow that split his shield in two.

_You didn’t train enough,_ Ulfric thought gleefully.

But Torygg kicked the fallen part of his shield at Ulfric, forcing the Jarl of Windhelm to jump lest he be tripped, and pulled a small ebony hand-axe from behind his back, throwing it under-armed.

Ulfric was caught in the shoulder and though the pain was agonising, he pulled the weapon free and dropped it, buying time for one last Shout.

“You should have aimed for the head,” he grated before saying “FUS RO DAH!”

Torygg was thrown against the back wall and an ugly crack proclaimed something in his spine was broken.

But he shook a throwing knife into his hand and threw it at Ulfric’s eye.

“Thank you for the advice,” he whispered just before the Jarl of Windhelm’s world turned into pain and darkness… and then nothing.

…

“Well, we’re up shit creek without a paddle.”

The Moot had dissolved into pandemonium as the duel had been declared null and void by Kodlak Whitemane. Both Torygg and Ulfric had used dishonourable tactics and while the latter was dead, the former would never walk again and therefore couldn’t be High King. The Imperial Jarls promptly declared Elisif the true High Queen of Skyrim while the Stormcloak Jarls declared that it should be Bjarni or Egil. The latter was already shaking his head in horror, whether at the naming, the death of his father or the result of the duel, none knew. But the Moot truce held long enough for the Jarls to scatter to their Holds.

“That’s the politest thing you’ve said all afternoon,” Tullius remarked to Laina, whose curses had blistered the air as she tried and failed to heal Torygg’s back.

“We don’t just have a civil war on our hands, we might very well have bloody dragons!” the sorceress cried out. “If we don’t act quickly…”

“’Kingless, crownless, broken’,” Rikke intoned sombrely. “You’re certain, Laina?”

“Until Alduin shows up, I can’t be, but a civil war in the Snow Tower was the last fucking sign!” she exclaimed in despair. “Kyne have mercy, we’re not ready!”

Tullius gave the woman a wary stare. “Has she cracked?” he asked Rikke bluntly.

“No. There’s an old prophecy that both the Nords and the Blades knew about the return of the dragons…” Rikke sighed. “Sir, I think we better prepare for the possibility. I know it sounds mad but two hundred years ago, no one expected the Septim Empire to fall or the Tribunal to be destroyed by the Nerevarine.”

Laina wiped her eyes. “If we win fast enough, we might avert it. That’s your job, Imperial Nutcracker.”

Tullius nodded tightly. “So it is. You know there will be no honour as you Nords consider it in my tactics?”

Rikke chuckled bitterly. “What is honour in the face of the end of the world, General? Give the commands, I’ll see them carried out.”

They went into Torygg’s bedchamber, where the former High King lay in bed. “It isn’t all bad news,” Tullius told him with a wry smile. “You’ve put the Stormcloak rebellion in the hands of inexperienced youths.”

“They have Galmar and the core of the militia, most of whom are Legion veterans, to call on,” Elisif told the General. “It will be a harder fight than we might wish.”

Torygg closed his eyes. “I tried to stop him.”

Rikke sighed. “I know. If it’s any consolation, you were a great High King while you lasted.”

It wasn’t enough. But it would have to be.


End file.
